


Achilles' Lament

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-10
Updated: 2009-09-10
Packaged: 2019-11-24 01:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: We all have our weaknesses.





	Achilles' Lament

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to the _Mr Darcy Takes a Wife_ audio book read by the lusciously voiced Rosalyn Landor. I think the cadence of her performance is wearing off on me.
> 
> Disclaimer: SO, SO, _SO_ not mine.

He didn't want to bring work to bed, but the pages he bore required his reading them before the morning. Uncharacteristically, she'd insisted that if he needed to read, she could read at his side while he got through the small number of pages. It wasn't anything he wanted to make a habit of—he liked to keep work in his office and out of the bedroom—but it wasn't a lot to read, so he'd agreed; he would, after all, much prefer to even work with her as his side than have to read alone in his office.

She was already in bed, sheets pulled up to her waist, leaned back against the headboard in her pretty ivory camisole, already well into her novel. She glanced up as he came in, then directed her eyes back to the page. He was wearing pyjamas of his own, at least pyjama bottoms, and laid his legal pad down along with his reading glasses. He switched the lamp on before he slipped between the sheets beside her, propped up the pillows behind him, put on his glasses, and settled back to read.

He'd barely gotten through one page when he heard her say his name.

He looked at her over the top of his glasses. She was holding her thumb on a passage and regarding him with intense and slightly mischievous eyes. "Can I try something?"

He went back to his reading. "Mm-hmm," he said as he immersed himself back in legal precedent. He was aware of her movement in a very abstract way; he felt her push back the sheet. He very much came back to the present, however, when he felt the pressure of the pads of her fingertips fleetingly on his unaware male member through his pyjama bottoms—unaware, that was, until awakened by her light touch. 

He jumped as she did this, and just as quickly, she pulled her hand back. "What was that?" he asked exasperatedly, casting his reading glasses and papers aside.

"Nothing," she said, going back to her book.

"Bridget."

She did not respond.

"What on earth are you reading?" he asked suspiciously.

"Just a book." He tried to catch a glimpse of the title; she was folding it back on itself in an attempt to conceal it. He was able to catch the words 'memoir' and 'madame'.

"Bridget," he said again.

"As a journalist, I have learned it's important to independently verify an author's assertion," she said on a seemingly wild tangent, continuing reading.

"Assertion?"

Her eyes flitted back to where her fingers had just trespassed. "I see now that she was right."

"About what?" he asked, trying to quell what her touch had stirred.

Unnervingly, she was still reading. "Women like to be touched just about everywhere, and men… well, pretty much just need to be touched in one place."

He was speechless.

"Sorry to interrupt you," she said casually. "Carry on."

He still could find no words, made no move to continue with his reading.

She glanced up. "Are you finished with your reading already?" she asked in what appeared to be devout earnestness.

Maddening.

"I think you know I'm not," he said at last.

"Then what is it?"

He reached, snatched her book from her hand and pretended to scan the page. "Does that book of yours mention anything about the consequence of touching a man in that _one place_?" he asked with purposeful emphasis.

"Well, I hadn't gotten quite that far yet." 

The wide-eyed innocence was really more than he could take. He tossed her book to the floor. "I think there's pretty much only one," he said, slipping his hand under the sheet and around her waist, "and you know it."

She gave him a challenging look. "Book also said that men can't control their urges."

"When it comes to a beautiful woman running her fingers on you, dressed in a lovely camisole in bed beside you…" he began, his voice dark with intent. "Yes. The book is right."

With that he decided to stop talking and start acting. He tugged up her camisole while laying her back on the bed; the kiss he gave her helped to direct her precisely where he wanted her to go. He was turned in such a way (their bodies forming a chevron of sorts) so that she could not reach him again to further agitate his person, and held fast the one hand that had the best chance of doing so. He kissed her at great length, slowly and deliberately, teasing her with his tongue, taunting her with gentle nips to her lips, as he pushed the camisole higher until it was up over her chest. Proceeding to sweep his fingers over her skin, he heard and felt her breath become more ragged.

"Women like to be touched everywhere, hm?" he asked gruffly.

"Some places more than others," she said, fighting to keep her voice even and a rein on her expression of pleasure. She failed miserably, due in large part to the pressure of his own finger pads increasing as he took one breast firmly in hand. She gasped.

He wondered if said places were as dutifully recorded in this author's book, but thought he knew those places well enough and decided to visit them all in turn. He availed himself of her exposed neck, nipping and swirling his tongue over the skin of her throat before working his way to her very pert nipple. His hand found her hip and held on tight as he grazed his teeth over the peak. Under this ministration she moaned and bucked.

"Hardly fair," she managed.

"Hmm?" he said, his deep voice thrumming along her skin as he kissed his way over to her other breast.

"That I should only get one touch in."

He was deliberately continuing to keep himself out of reach of her grasp; he realised that despite his efforts she was agitating his person quite effectively, even without direct contact with it. "I have more ground to cover than you do."

As he gave the other side equal treatment, the backs of his fingers ran over her abdomen to her inner thigh, on which they lingered, eliciting a whimper from her. This was one place definitely on the list. Sitting up and pushing back the sheets, he worked his way down her leg to that sensitive place behind her knee as he placed a kiss on the knee itself.

"Mark," she said in a rather papery voice.

"Mm-hmm?" he asked, running his fingers along her shin, down then up to the knee again before cupping her calf in his palm as he bent down to kiss her shin, then further down on her foot, shifting himself on the bed as he did.

"I think the author's wrong, after all."

He was so focused on running his hands over her smooth calf, so intent on placing delicate kisses on the knuckles of her toes, and so stubborn about keeping her hands out of reach of his upright self that he neglected to call to mind that she knew all about—

He felt her mouth on the back of his ankle, her teeth grazing over that strong tendon there, her silky lips and velvety tongue wet on his skin, and the touch was so surprisingly erotic that he ceased all motion immediately.

He swore she giggled.

"Oh, I didn't forget," she said throatily, sitting up to run her own hands up his lower leg, pushing the pyjama cuff up his leg, then moving her hands back over the soft fabric, she continued further up to his hips, to the waistband of the pyjamas.

"I win," she said as she towered over and looked down at him, her camisole having slipped back down over her breasts, her wavy blonde hair falling across her cheek and obliterating her eyes, but not her grin.

"I didn't know this was a contest," he said, his eyelids fluttering closed as her fingers yanked the waistband down and over that part of him which stood at attention. 

"I always win," she said. She then began to administer a series of strokes a little bit more insistent than that first one.

"No more— _oh_ —reading in bed," he said with a lengthy groan, twitching up into her ministrations. As she leaned forward to kiss him, he surprised her by rearing up, clutching her in his arms and pressing her back against the bed.

She squealed, at least until he began kissing her in earnest. With her soft skin under his hands, he moved his palms under her arse, and, unable to contain his passion any longer, he drove forward into her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in her surprise, though clearly she was ready for it; this sound quickly devolved into a sustained moan of pleasure as he got his knees up under himself for optimal power behind his thrust. This way he was also far less dependent on holding himself up on both arms, so he used his right hand to continue to deliver caresses to her body: her cheek as he kissed her, her throat, her collarbone, her breast again (paying particular attention to her rock-hard nipple, pinching and squeezing to her evident vocal delight), her stomach, her hip… then that spot right where their bodies joined, causing her to thrash about under him even more forcefully, signalling (along with a tightening around him) that she had come quite thoroughly. A few more vigorous thrusts and he joined her in nirvanic bliss.

"Oh," she said again happily from underneath his weight as he lavished her throat with more kisses. "Yes, indeed. I always win."

He chuckled as he canted off to the side, pulling her with him. "Mmm. I'd say win-win."

As he held her close to him, she asked, her voice quite serious, "What about your reading?"

"Oh no," he said. "It can wait. I've quite learned my lesson there."

She was quiet for a bit, but her voice was quite smug when she said, "Yes. I thought you might."

He should have known she'd had an ulterior motive. He laughed deep in his throat as he directed her to his lips again for a kiss. After he flipped off his bedside lamp (and she, hers), she snuggled up to him once more and all went silent. They both then seemed destined for sleep, but he thought about her book again.

"Bridget," he murmured. "Tell me more about that book you had."

"It's the memoir of a prostitute," she said matter-of-factly.

"Darling," he said, his voice sounding scandalised to even his own ears.

She laughed a light, bubbly laugh. "You didn't complain about the benefits you reaped from it, did you?"

He thought about it a moment, allowing his lids to fall heavily again before sighing, "Touché."

_The end._


End file.
